


Flowers to Your Love

by Redeyeisbae



Category: Cinderella Phenomenon (Visual Novel)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, Fritz Route spoilers, Fritz route written in the context of Hanahaki, Hanahaki Disease, Mild Gore, Pining, slight AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-24
Updated: 2019-06-01
Packaged: 2020-02-16 15:29:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,508
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18694255
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Redeyeisbae/pseuds/Redeyeisbae
Summary: “I love her and that is the beginning of everything.” -F. Scott Fitzgerald. It all starts with three petals.





	1. Fritz

**Author's Note:**

> Chapter 1: Fritz  
> Chapter 2: Varg  
> Chapter 3: Lucette
> 
> This is a three part story written from the point of view of each characters. Each character is an unreliable narrator in their own right so each chapter have different events happening from their own perspective. Please bear with me if you have any questions. I hope the next chapters will clear some of them.
> 
> Happy reading!

* * *

  _“I love her and that is the beginning of everything.” F. Scott Fitzgerald_

_i. Acacia blossom – Concealed love_

It all starts with three innocent petals. Three soft buttery yellow petals he manages to get off his throat and lay innocently on his palm.

Fortunately, they were on the gardens that day. It is a window of chance Fritz uses to excuse his coughing fit on the flower pollens around them, a half-truth and a lie rolling off his tongue with the same intensity as the emergence of the petals. The princess looks up from her book and stares, an unspoken question lying beneath her lashes, wondering if they should move somewhere else. The knight shakes his head with a guilty smile, even as warmth rises in his chest at her concern. The princess returns to reading her book with apt concentration and Fritz forces himself to look away. His gaze falls on the acacia tree keeping the princess under its cool shade.

He wonders how long he has left.

Unrequited love is a sickness. It's the rot in his body, the decay in his heart. It's a flower blooming in his lungs and it will kill him. Literally and eventually. Hanahaki Disease is an illness in which the victim suffers because of unrequited love. The flower of that love lives in their lungs and grows by the year. It feeds on their repressed emotions and eventually the flower will take too much, grow too big and kill the host.

But Fritz only smiles, gentle and soft, slipping the yellow petals in his pocket and resume with his duty.

* * *

  _ii. Red Carnation – My heart aches for you_

The petals are weightless in his hands, deep and vivid in their dark shade of red he hadn’t seen on any other flower but the rose. But as he strokes each petal, admiring the softness and the shade, he remembers a distant memory, an echo of a distant past.

Once, when Fritz was young, still small enough he could follow his mother everywhere she went without being mocked as too clingy, his mother had taken him once to a cemetery. Rows of tombstones lined from left to right, seemingly never ending in their number. His grandmother’s tombstone had been among them, located on the near edge of the cemetery, he remembers. The grave was a cold and dull grey stone, devoid of warmth his mother promises him his grandmother had been in life.

He supposes that why the petals were beautiful. With the batch of red carnations his mother brought, the flowers had brightened the dull stone, painting a canvas of the nothingness of grey and the passion of red.

_(“Absence makes the heart grow fonder, aching, and hurting, my boy.” She smiles, red painted lips tinged with sweet sorrow and ache. “The meaning of the red carnation, in particular, is–”)_

The sound of footsteps echo in the hallway and Fritz turns towards the sound, slipping the petals into his pocket with clumsy grace. Despite his efforts, two petals fall to the ground. Lucette eyes the petals with a pause, bending down to pick them up. When she straightens, cradling the soft petals in her hands, her eyes find his, penetrating liquid fire asking a silent question he cannot answer. He lowers his gaze.

A soft sigh escapes her lips. “Go home if you’re not feeling well, Fritz.”

“I’m fine, princess.”

She frowns at him, lips drawing into a thin line. Her eyes go over his form once before resting on his face. “Just go home. You’re dismissed for the day.”

He says nothing when she tucks the petals in her pockets and walks away.

_(“–Dolor cordis.”)_

The petals burn vividly inside the pockets of his dull grey uniform as he follows the trails of her red dress with his eyes, lingering longer than proper, heart aching and longing.

Love itself was not a curse – but oh, how cursed did he feel by love.

* * *

  _iii. White Heather – Protection_

“Adiuva,” is the word he gives to her, a plea and a promise.

There is a lull, he realizes, stagnancy and laxness in the protection he promised her. He can still feel the edge of panic, the roaring ice in his veins, the racing heartbeats and choked breath when Lucette walks away from her stepsiblings and weaves into the crowd, out of his vision, blue cloak billowing behind her. He is still too much like the bumbling new knighted soldier he was three years ago _–_ Clumsy and foolish. There is no pattern to his thoughts when his feet immediately run after her.

He spots her a bit later, her blue cloak a perfect complement to the blue roses and morning glories displayed outside a small flower shop she was standing next to. But her body is taut with tension, hands fisted to her side; her lips are pressed into a thin line, curling downwards. There is an ache in his chest as he watches her, wondering about what she could have been thinking, what she could have heard. His breath catches, the petals tickling his throat and he draws away from her sight to hide.

But the sounds of his coughs draw her attention and she sees him, posture easing as she spots him. There is poorly hidden concern reflecting in her eyes as she drew nearer to where he stood. Fritz swallows the urge to cough more petals, clearing his throat for good measure and hides the white petals within a fist before offering a bow. “Please allow me to escort you back to the palace with me, Princess. It’s becoming too late for you to be outside.” He says.

Her expression sours.

But as soon as it came, it smoothens and she follows after him as he leads her towards her carriage. Her posture is proud as she stoutly ignores the whispers and glares from the people, the words and acts bouncing off her as if they were nothing but air. He smiles wryly, ignoring the tickle in the back of his throat. Ah, of course. His princess had always been strong. She will never break in front of her subjects.

Still, he gives her the word—one of the rarest treasures his mother, who loved ancient words had left him. _Adiuva._

Princess Lucette will never call for him, he understands at least that much. But he gives it anyway, as a plea and a promise. He slips the white petals in his pocket and gives her a reassuring smile. He repeats the word to her and silently, to himself.

_Please call for me. I will always come to protect you._

* * *

  _iv. Lotus blossoms – Far from the one he loves_

A tiny collection of flower petals lies in his room, bundled in a small heap inside a small box, hidden from the world. They come in every color imaginable, every petal patterned differently from the other and Fritz cannot decide if he hates them as much as he loves them. Each petal now causes pain as they tear themselves out of his lungs, into the back of his throat. At times, they are impossible to breathe around. But Fritz diligently gathers what he could, letting the petals rest in the box and waiting for the inevitable.

He had never been apart from her for so long.

The princess is still alive. It is a small consolation, a reassurance he knows like the color of the petals he keeps. Hanahaki disease can also end when the life of the loved one stops. But separation of any kind leaves him unable to breath, unable to stop the aching madness that drives him to find her.

His life at the palace continues. He stays for his patrols and his errands; he works in shifts with the other knights for the other princess who was not his princess; he trains and trains until he is taking in ragged breaths and choking on coughs. His training had lacked recently, lungs unable to keep up with his usual harsh training schedules. Still, he never stops looking.

Trails of sweet lilies had always brought him to her, back in the palace where there was no one else who had the same sharp scent. It was his comfort, his sweet addiction he wasn’t willing to admit on the grounds of propriety and the title he carries. A knight is not allowed to yearn for their liege.

But in the streets of Angielle that still echoes with the loud undertones of joy and merriment, the scents blend together and the scent of lilies only lead to the flower shop he had found her a month ago.

There is no Princess Lucette.

His feet follow a leaden path through town once more. He looks for a shade of red, the trail of lilies, the sound of her voice _–_ He thinks of magic, of reality bending tales and wonders if he was caught in one, if his life had been a lie and he was waking to reality.

_(–but if this was the reality he should have lived, then he wished he should have slept more, dreamt more–_

_– and reached for the lily he had within his reach.)_

He stops at the foot of the fountain, feeling a familiar fire in his chest, his lungs preparing to force more floral arrangements out of his throat. Pink petals fall from his mouth, a handful of them joining the floating lotus blossoms in the waters.

The sight of it clears his mind.

He swore his life to the princess. Entertaining ideas of dreams and magic are pointless in the face of his reality, in his world he had built around her. He will find her and be by her side again. He squares his shoulders once more, the uncertainty fading. The smell of lilies wafts through his senses and unconsciously, his feet follow them once more.

* * *

  _v. White Lily – It’s heavenly to be with you_

Sometimes he heaves up flower buds for minutes. At nights he barely makes it to his bed before his chest tightens and his stomach curls, throat burning what’s now become a familiar fire. The flower buds come in bouts, in waves, and Fritz could do nothing but let it pour out of him. They drop to the floor, in different assortments but most prominently, in droves of half-open white lilies, her favorite flower.

But there is no change to the routine he starts every day that the princess stays with him. He wakes up early to bring her to the famous bakeries in town for breakfast. He makes sure to take the route where musicians and entertainers perform the most on every trip. And he always leaves the princess with an interesting book to read while he is away for his duties. He finishes his duties the earliest and fastest he could to take her out for dinner. Every day is a new experience, a new breath of air, a new side to the princess who watches everything with the curiosity of a child. And he takes in all expressions, basking in the warmth of her not-smiles but still glowing happiness. His heart aches, the flowers itching at the back of his throat and he cannot _breathe_. But he could have never perceived that he could fall even deeper than he already has.

He leaves the half-open white lilies in a vase in the room she stays in, evading her confused queries as he does. Even in their half-opened state, they are still lilies and Fritz does not have the heart to throw away flowers she adored. The flowers had been thoroughly washed, taking away the lingering scent of blood, but Fritz watches nervously as the princess tentatively strokes the petals of the yet to bloom flowers with slight hesitance. He relaxes when he sees her eyes lighting up in delight.

It’s almost worth it.

And it is a little dangerous.

Fritz doesn’t enjoy lying to the princess. But in close proximity, he cannot hide, cannot draw away. He tucks the petals within his fingers, clenching them tightly within a fist when he cannot excuse himself, when he inevitably falls to the demands of the flowers within his lungs. The princess always stays by his side, rubbing his back soothingly, his name resting in her lips with constant worry and anxiety. It almost makes him guilty, if there wasn’t a treacherous part of him that loves the attention she gives. The part of him, who is still coherent enough though, despite the oxygen deprivation, banishes the thought. He excuses his condition on an illness, reasoning he gets cold easily.

The next day, Lucette finds him a scarf, a black one with silver linings at the hem.

“For your cold.” She says as she wraps the cloth around his neck. The material is unexpectedly warm and soft. Lucette doesn’t meet his eyes, turning her head to the side when he thanks her, a faint attempt at hiding her real feelings. Still, the faint hue of red in her ears gives her away and Fritz hides his smile behind his new scarf. “You are dressed too light. And you also need to rest. There is no need to take me around town tomorrow. Your health comes first.”

‘A little dangerous’ might be inadequate.

Fully bloomed flowers meant that roots have begun to grow. Soon his lungs will be filled with them and there will be no room for air in his body, no way for him to breathe around the wood and the flora growing within. Still, he carries on.

The week passes and he stands in front of the palace gates with Lucette, all precious moments ended, and a crushed fully bloomed white lily in his hand.

* * *

  _vi. Purple Hyacinth – Please forgive me_

“You are cursed. Cursed with an alternate personality. A cruel one.”

Lucette breaks to him the truth she utters with utmost trust and pleading eyes.

His first thought is of the impossibility of it. He knows that he will never hurt her, that he will always protect her even from himself. It is his oath, his duty—he draws every painful breath from his root infested lungs to protect and love her. But the self-reassurance does not prepare him for the utter look of betrayal she shoots him. For the hurt she exudes as she turns away and refuses to look at him. Staring at her reflection as she faces the window, he spies the twisted expression on her face, the trembling lips and the shining eyes refusing the salted tears to fall. The itch comes to him with a vengeance, the sensation travelling from his throat to his chest and he barely restrains it. Just as he barely restrains himself not to simply kiss her tears away and settle for a heartfelt embrace of apology. He had only dared to comfort her, to be a pillar of strength, to protect her in her weakness and he had destroyed her trust. He had no right to wish for more.

No other words were spoken that night, the apology itself falling short from his lips.

As soon as he walks out from her room, he braces himself against the wall and heaves, every breath coming out shallow, every intake of air scarce— He thinks of the still blooming acacia tree in the garden, the cold headstones decorated with red carnations in the cemetery, the lotus blossoms in the fountain, the scarf he left with the crushed lilies in his room— His thoughts settle with Lucette and her golden eyes lined with tears.

He feels the roots firmly enclosing his lungs and he drops to his knees, clawing at his uniform, fighting to breathe. Misshapen flowers—Purple Hyacinth— fall from him and surround him, its petal stained red. He wonders if he will die now, with that last image in his mind, with the same remorse as the flower conveys for him. Will he disappear forever now? Hated by her?

_(That would be the best choice, wouldn't it? He had hurt her. If he disappears, he will never have the chance to ever do so again._ _)_

 He sees two feet standing a few paces away from him. One hand picks up one flower and Fritz meets the bemused smile of the king’s political advisor.

“Love and a curse.” He remarks, twirling the flower in his hand. There is a shred of pity in his eyes when he speaks, “It must be painful, Sir Fritzgerald. The flowers speak for you.” Mythros eyes the bloodied flower with interest before turning to him again, all traces of pity erased. “But perhaps you should not have tried for something you would not have been able to grasp in the first place. A princess and a knight, my, how scandalous.”

With a careless flick of his wrist, the flower falls to the ground.

_"Come, Varg."_

The knight freezes. Tendrils of darkness rise from beneath his feet and he feels a tugging sensation at the back of his consciousness. Sharp, insistent and _overpowering._ Wide eyed, he struggles as the tendrils wrap him with vengeance. Stark yellow eyes stare at him from beyond the darkness, and that was all he sees before it consumes him. 

* * *

  _vii. Marigold – Jealousy_

Varg’s memories bleed off him sometimes. Faint scenes of when he is with the princess, of when Sir Mythros’ and his father orders him, of the palace and of the town square. The memories bring him a little bit of spite, even though he is aware it came from his curse, his other self within him. No words could describe his shame, his guilt, for causing the princess pain with his disbelief. If he hadn’t walked away that night, if he hadn’t allowed himself to be cursed— _if only he **believed.**_

The wolf taunts him from the darkness, glimpses of yellow eyes mocking him in his captivity, in his self-deprecation.

_‘Some honorable knight you are.’_ he laughs. ‘ _You accuse her as a liar, as a pretender when you know full well she is incapable. Shows how well you know her, hmm?’_

He says nothing.

_‘You don’t deserve her.’_

**“I know.”**

But the dark hallway, the pulsing white crystal and the image of the princess stays on the forefront of the wolf’s mind. It is a strange vision, an image of beauty crystallized with sleep, a sleeping princess on royal silks, deep in slumber, heavy eyelids hiding the golden eyes he loved.

He moves against his binds, feeling the red chains binding him to the ground, clinking with his effort. He needed to see her. A growl echoes in his prison, a warning. The chains sink even further, weighing him down but he ignores it, struggling even more. He needed to see her. He needed--

“Luce--”

_But the wolf binds him ever tighter, the strength of a predator overpowering the foolish hunter and he thrashes—fights—screams—_

In the end, it was Varg who stays by her side.

The light of the bright red dawn gracing a shade of pink hair is what registers into Fritz’s sight first before he notices the unmistakable sight of tears running down the princess’ cheeks. He rushes to her side, guilty and ashamed but he brushes away her tears, catching them as they fall.

“What did he do?”

His princess says nothing, shaking her head and Fritz dares to hold her hand, offering the smallest comforts he could. There is a moment of silence, a companionate peace. There is a small flower Lucette cradles in her hand, a striped carnation, and his gaze falls on a vase of flowers beside her bed. White carnations.

He knew Varg put them there. A moment of fancy, a mocking gift for the princess who knew Fritz would put white lilies instead if he had been awake. The white carnations lacked the majesty of lilies, petals ruffled unlike the lily’s proud spread. But the presence of the giver is undeniable.

His throat constricts. The past week has done nothing but made him more aware of his growing uncontrollable feelings. He didn’t wish for the princess to see it. But it crawls its way up, dredging up his throat, stem scratching, pushing, and he turns to the side, letting her hand go.

“Fritz…?”

The taste of copper pervades his senses, a bitter aftertaste dragging with it as he retches. Violent. Unrelenting. Demanding— he vomits marigolds on the floor. Bright and fiery orange stained with red, reflecting the roaring flames of jealousy and self-hatred he felt.

* * *

  _viii. Nasturtium – Conquest_

Sometimes he hears the princess call for him. He hears his name, syllables uttered with a desperate hope; sometimes he hears her plea _–_ Adiuva, calling for the promise he had sworn to deliver. He cannot overpower the wolf, but the lilting echoes of her voice force him, empower him. For every call he does not answer, he doubles his efforts, struggling against the shackles that binds him to his own mind.

She needed him. She still believes in him, even in his unworthiness and weakness. He cannot fade away yet. He cannot stand to watch her break--the proud lily cannot wilt.

Varg toys with him, mocking him in his earnest efforts. He is far more powerful than him, unrelenting and tenacious. A predator unwilling to share the prey. But Fritz stands proud, the hunter who has nothing but his will as his weapon.

“Fritz, I know you’re in there.”

He cannot afford to lose. Beaten and bound to the brink, he still clings to his sanity, listening.

“Adiuva!”

Her voice reverberates within his prison. A plea and a promise invoked. And he breathes, letting it wash over him. He musters all his strength and _–_

There is a brief flash, a crack within Varg’s defenses and he clings on to a shred of control, pushing him down. He sees a swordsman _–_ _Prince Klaude, lost prince–_ and two witches _–Traitors to the queen, upholder of the good–_ And he sees _her._

“Get the princess away from here.” He pleads. He feels the wolf thrashing inside him, clawing, pulling. He grimaces, feeling the small opening start to close. He holds the princess’s gaze for a moment and renews his resolve once more. “Please. Keep her safe.”Lucette struggles, calling him once more but the young boy pulls her away, out of his reach. That should do, he relaxes.

It was his mistake.

With his slip of guard, the wolf pounces, closing all gaps.

And Fritz stays within the darkness, struggling against tighter shackles once more as his conquest ends with the bitter taste of failure.

* * *

  _ix. Red tulip – declaration of love_

The next time he comes to awareness, he wracks up an assortment of floral arrangement _–_ yellow carnations for _rejection,_ cyclamen for _resignation,_ peony for _shame_ and a handful of purple hyacinths for a thousand of apologies. All flowers stained and soaked with blood and saliva. He gasps for air, breathing lungs full as best as he could with the flowers in its way.  Fritz had almost forgotten the violence of his one-sided love, never having the need for a constant reminder in his prison.

He supposes, in that manner, Varg’s presence had been a blessing.

A hand rubs his back, easing his fit until he feels air circulate more freely within his lungs. He sends the witch _–Delora,_ he recalls _–_ a grateful smile.

“And so sleeping beauty awakens. Good to have you back, Sir Knight.” The witch says, helping him to his feet. “Is he still fighting you inside?”

Fritz straightens, and shakes his head. “No.” he says, “He’s surprisingly quiet.” And he is. Varg is despondent, observing their interaction with strange quietness. Fritz clings to the control he won fair and square, this time holding it with an iron grip. Varg’s strange actions aside, there’s still something he needed to do while he was still coherent.

“Better not take a horse gift in the mouth then. Let’s go.” The witch hands him a small vial of potion which she orders him to drink. He drinks the cool liquid, feeling it soothe his throat and lessen the throbbing and ache. Once settled, Fritz leads her through the hallways, weaving seamlessly through the cuts and corners, through the traps and mazes he’d seen Mythros set up as Varg. Halfway through the palace, Delora locates the princess with a spell. Now, they only need to work together with her as bait and Fritz as the princess’s shield.

“But will she still trust me?”

Delora throws him a look over her shoulder. Fritz pauses to a halt, clapping a hand to his mouth as another flower force itself through his airways. Two dark purple anemone flowers fall to the ground. The witch sighs.

“Look. I don’t know how much conditioning you put yourself through to believe that your love will never be reciprocated but I can say at least, in this instance, that the princess cares for you. You are hope, and her salvation.” She rests a hand on his shoulder, dark eyes the same color as the anemone flowers resting on the ground, shining with plain confidence, “If you cannot take my word for it, then see the truth with your own eyes when we rescue your fair princess from the evil witch. That’s every knight’s dream, isn’t it?”

Fritz answers with a weak smile.

Later, when he runs down the same hallways with the princess they rescued, his hand clasping hers tightly, unwilling to let go, there is an apology ready on his lips when the princess smiles. A smile radiating like moonbeams, soft and ethereal, stealing his breath unlike the flowers blooming in his lungs ever could.

“I’m just so glad you’re here.”

Delora hides a smile and Fritz had to remind himself that breathing had to happen.

_And_ then she doubles over and his breath is stolen again when she starts coughing, _retching,_ and red flowers falls into her waiting palms. For a moment he can’t breathe at all, can’t fill his lungs with oxygen or smooth the tangle of his thoughts. There are flowers. Flower from _–_ She has _–_ She can’t _–_!

She holds out the red tulip to him, smiling once again, lips smeared with red. And Fritz breathes. Then he freezes.

He turns to the side, and he heaves. He throws up not just petals, but whole flowers. He throws up stems and leaves and roots. It comes up and up and up and he can’t breathe but at the same time it feels like his lungs are being cleared. And then suddenly there’s nothing left to come up, and it’s just him leaning on Lucette in the middle of the flower bed. 

He can breathe better than he has been able to in a long, long time. There’s no restriction, no petals. He exhales and the only thing that comes out is air.

* * *

  _x. Yellow cosmos – Walk with me hand and hand_

_When Fritz first meets the princess, he thinks of white lilies. There is a beauty of youth within the recently turned fifteen-years-old and Fritz finds himself mesmerized by the image. She is beautiful, her posture proud and imperious, her liquid gold eyes drawing attention like the bright stars. Lilies stand for purity and innocence, royalty and regality and while anyone would look at him strangely for comparing her to a flower which is her antithesis, only someone who had stayed long at her side as he, could probably understand why he would see it as such._

_All discoveries start with small, tender curiosities. As his liege, whom he had sworn his life and loyalty, what kind of person was she? Was she the girl who loved flowers? Was she the girl who loved sweet foods? Did she like reading? What kind of books did she read? Did she also enjoy music? What kind of songs does she listen to?_

_What was she like when people are not looking?_

_With every question posed and answered, Princess Lucette, who stood as proud as a lily, began to embody the flower he had seen her as. There is innocence in her love for dolls, lilies and the color blue. There is a soft glow to her when she sees her favorite custard Danish bread. There is tender care in her way of handling everything important to her. Her hidden kindness shines when she accepts his clumsy mistakes without complaint and still somehow trusts him to keep her safe. And there is strength in her capability to disregard people’s opinions of her and carry on untarnished._

_Perhaps that's why he wasn’t surprised when he first sees the petals._

 

The gardens were not like before. The grasses were taller, the flowers were brighter, and the acacia tree was bigger. They laid out the piece of picnic cloth they brought with them and sat idly, chatting about mundane things. Eventually, the mundane topics descend into a game of flowers and their meaning.

“Purple pansies?”

“You occupy my thoughts.”

“Blue violet?”

“I’ll always be true.”

“Daisy.”

“Loyal love.”

Pausing to look over the variety of flowers surrounding them, Fritz picks a small yellow flower. It is a different shade, a lighter yellow, but the petals reminded him of the first petals he saw a year ago, a happy memory of when he realized he fell in love with the princess. With a secretive smile, he turns to her. “Guess, princess.”

Lucette stares at the flower with a contemplative look.  “Yellow cosmos,” she identifies. When she raises her gaze to meet his eyes, he tucks the flower in her hair.

“Walk with me hand and hand?” He asks. She laces her fingers against his, and smiles with the radiance of a star.

“Forever.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dolor Cordis (Latin) - Heartache
> 
> Next up: Varg


	2. Varg

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "My only love sprung from my only hate" - Romeo and Juliet, Shakespeare. Varg sails the river of denial and tries not to get thrown overboard

_“My only love sprung from my only hate.”_

_Romeo and Juliet, Shakespeare_

* * *

 

_ I. Candytuft – Indifference _

As Fritz’s curse, the embodiment of his dark side, Varg is unexpectedly the salvation to the stubborn idiocy of his own counterpart who is adamant in dying for his own love. His existence brings a halt to Fritz’s rampart love as he is the opposite of the knight. Fritz’s love is the epitome of purity--fresh white lilies and gardenias. Varg is the incarnation of a violence repressed--orange lilies and monkshood.

Princess Lucette is Fritz’s to protect and cherish. Little Red Varg’s to devour and destroy.

So it surprises him when he feels the itch at the back of his throat, when he feels his lungs burn as if on fire.  There are three white petals he expels from throat, resting in his hand in a mocking color of purity. Connotations of love should have Fritz’s area of expertise, not Varg’s. Varg has no feelings for Fritz’s beloved, has no bearing on her welfare unless it is an order he must follow. All he has is the instinct of a predator unwilling to share his prey.

And yet his vision hazes to gold, his skin prickles with the night chill, and the scent of lilies pervades his senses. He remembers the shadowed defiance under the moonlight and his heart skips. He feels the itch rise to his throat and he turns to the side to clear his throat as Mythros’ voice drone in the background. Alcaster’s eyes drift to him for a moment, and Varg holds to his stoic silence.

“Are you listening, Varg?” Mythros asks after a beat of silence, annoyed.

“Escort the princess to the palace, watch her and retrieve her if she tries to run, make sure she’s unaware of the plan,” he lists, raising a brow as a sardonic smile stretches on his lips. “Did I miss anything else, _Sir_?” he asks, airily.

Mythros frowns at him. “And Sir Fritzgerald?”

At the mention of the knight, he stiffens, brows furrowing and lips twisting into a wordless distaste. “What of the boy?”

Mythros smiles, as if amused by his response. Alcaster, on the other hand, not so much. “Enough. Just make sure you do your missions correctly, _Varg._ Failures will not be tolerated.” the man says and turns on his heel, walking out of the room without waiting for a response. The witch beside him sighs and shakes his head, muttering a soft _‘graceless brute.’_ under his breath before he turns to him.

“Well then, we’ll be expecting results from you anytime soon, _Varg._ ” He says, and vanishes under the guise of a soft mist. The cursed man watches, letting the mist dissipate into the air. When the remnants are gone and there is no one else with him in the room, he takes out the white petals. Wordlessly, he crushes them and throws them on the trash.

* * *

 

_ II. White Gardenia – Secret Love _

Unrequited.

Varg knew that phrase very well. He had seen enough of his idiot counterpart’s memories, his aching love to know what it felt, and how it constricts his lungs and makes him struggle to breathe. “Hanahaki Disease, hm?” Of all the things to kill him, he had never imagined love to be the cause.

_(But these feelings are not his. They are Fritz’s quiet love that emerged silently and quickly grew strong; his casual admiration that had evolved into deep felt love. They.are.not.his.)_

The thought of the knight set his jaw on the surge of irritation, his frustration curling into the set of his fingers into a fist. The knight’s memories float on his mind at times, distracting him once in a while in between missions. He _loathes_ how all of them seem to revolve around the princess. It centers on her, hovers around her, and he hates to see a version of himself act almost quite similar to how a puppy sits and begs for even a scrap of attention.

As expected of the ice princess’s reputation though, it results in the puppy getting kicked half of the time.

Oh, but not all of it is a pointless masochism. He can perceive why Fritz loves her, in parts. There is innocence in the princess’s actions in the knight’s memories, an awkward kindness that shines through from time to time. She had never set out to bully or even use her station to harm others. She does not lord her position, or provoke others to challenge it. She maintains an admirable dignity and pride, above the judgment of people and above the shadow of her mother. While her bluntness can be amusing sometimes, sharp as they come and hurtful it may be, it also comes with the cluelessness of social norms which frankly _might_ be cute. (Fritz’s thoughts, not his.)

He can feel the memories awash with the boundless affection the knight holds in spades. The weight of it is overwhelming, the exposure creating a sense of intrusion he is unsure of how to deal with. Fundamentally, he is aware he is a part of Fritz. The knight’s actions had also been his; his thoughts before they had been separated had also been his thoughts. Separate they may be at the moment; Varg knows the two of them are still the same.

But given independence and looking back on it, it irritates him, annoys him when the comparison is stark and always made a point in discussion. It was worse when _she_ , of all people makes the distinction. There is no recognition in the princess’s gaze, the discrimination plain as she looks at him like a stranger and separates him entirely from her knight.

“I want Fritz back.”

That simple demand is, ironically, the catalyst that starts another bout of flowers.

Wordlessly, he slips the soft white petals in his pocket and growls low in mock offense to cover the brief catch of his breath, turning to her. Oh, but he is offended alright. Offended at the denial of his existence, the object of these feelings that are _not-his_ , scorning him of all people, denying him when he is still the person she is looking for at the same time. “You _always_ talk about that idiot. Do you know how sick I am hearing about him?” Varg wants to laugh, the urge present and heavy at the back of his throat. “You think Fritz is some honorable knight? Well, if that was true, his intentions would need to be pure to the core. And then you know what? I wouldn’t exist. “

“Can’t make something from nothing. Some part of your precious Fritz became me, princess.” He pauses, grimacing slightly, and leans to the side as the petals brush his throat. Her brows knot in mild concern but he ignores it, grinning sharply, “Sorry, princess. But you can only have me today.”

He supposes he's lucky he didn't choke on a rose.

Constant patrols and errands take the most of his time. The ice princess almost never leaves her room, which suited him just as fine. Less work for him, less time he spends in her presence. Unlike Fritz, he will not beg, or scamper for even a scrap of attention for feelings that are _not-his_.

Another set of petals goes straight into the trash.

* * *

 

_ III. Yellow Chrysanthemum - Slighted Love _

The faint scent of lilies tips him off immediately.

Alcaster and Mythros are discussing their plans once again, the volume of their voice unmodulated, in the middle of the hallways. Granted there aren’t many people walking around this late into the night, he wonders if the two are secretly idiots. Or knowing Mythros, he may have deliberately intended for discussion to take place near the princess’s room. Still, the thought of her proximity draws another uncomfortable fire in his chest and he forcefully extracts himself from the discussion. He makes for the opposite side of the hallway, away from her hiding place. _Let her wander around on her own_ , the thought is vicious in his own mind. He had told her multiple times that good princesses should do as they are told and stay safe within the confines of her room.

_(But then again, Princess Lucette had never been the conventional princess, wasn’t she?)_

The new mission comes hard on the heels of the last. “Kill Prince Rod and Princess Emelaigne.”

Fritz might have protested once, like the oh-so honorable knight he is. Varg, on the other hand, has no avenue of refusal, not with the leash that rests on his neck, ready to yank when needed. The command is simple anyway, one he has no compulsions to disobey.

The new moon effortlessly gives him cover, the absolute darkness allowing him to stalk the palace grounds through the shadows naturally provided. The prince and the princess’ room are on the opposite sides of the palace, a considerable distance given the size of the palace grounds, but there’s no specified time limit to his hunt. His steps are liberal, languid as he searches the rooms one by one. Surprisingly, his search leads to two empty rooms. He hums, lips tilting into an amused smile and turns on his heel, turning towards his princess’s room. If the rabbits were trying to escape, he had no doubt they would try to free his Little Red from her own cage, even if the person in question had been the one who willingly entered it in the first place. Foolish Little Red, he thinks minutely, thoughts veering towards her defiant image of posture once more. His chest aches, breath stuttering for a moment and he grits his teeth, banishing all thoughts.

“Ah. So this is where the rabbits escaped to.”

The hallways turn quiet, the harshly whispered arguments fading. The siblings are frozen, staring at him like rabbits caught in headlights. He spares them a brief predatory smile before his attention falls on Little Red. Her eyes turn to him, meeting his attention beat-for-beat, breath-for-breath with soft gold eyes glowing eerily in the dark. There is no hesitation to her next actions, weaving through a script thoroughly unfamiliar to him. She stood between him and her stepsiblings, lips pursed, jaw set and head tilted high in a defiant challenge. Varg raises a brow, amusement accompanying the raw appreciation aching in his chest. Her dislike for them had been very apparent, even in Fritz’s memories. There had never been a single kind interaction between them before. So why was she doing this now?

“Because I know this is not some order Fritz would take.”

He stills, the clarity of her voice and absolute trust resonating in him. _Fritz_. Again.

The sound of glass hits the floor. There’s a flash of light, and he forces his eyes close with a hiss. There is momentary blindness, black spots dancing in his vision before his ears pick up the sounds of footsteps running down the hallways. Once his vision restores itself, he follows. He finds them again, huddled in the tunnel below the palace. Lucette offers to stay behind, a firm order from her urging her siblings to escape. In the end, only the wolf and Little Red remains once more. A part of him crows in approval. He smiles, all teeth, and waits for her next move. “What happens now?” he asks.

There is an element excitement to this new script; to the unfamiliar dance he lets the princess lead. Fritz had always been of the opinion that Princess Lucette should be someone to be protected all the time. Princesses in his favorite tales of knights had always been noble and proud. Lucette was certainly a prime sample of it-- noble and proud, back straight, arms stretched on both sides, boldly meeting his eyes without hesitation. There is no frailness in her posture, her strength absolute in appearance. It makes his blood _sing._

_(But frailness and helplessness had also been always a key element that was of prevalence in the tales, more so for the tale of Little Red Riding Hood who is devoured by the wolf.)_

There is palpable fear in her eyes; a naked vulnerability that accompanies it and grows clearer the closer the wolf comes. Unwittingly, the image of defiance crumbles when he comes close enough and she closes her eyes and shouts.

 “Adiuva!”

He freezes.

He grimaces, a curse making past his lips as he falls to his knees. Tendrils of shadow snake its up way to his body. He grits his teeth in pain, lifting himself just enough to stare accusingly at the princess who stares back with a mixture of horror and relief. The shadows grip him tighter, pulling him down and he struggles against Fritz’s waking consciousness as the tug-of-war begins its initiation. The struggle lasts for minutes, for half an hour--he’s not sure how long-- but when he comes to, the tunnels are empty; leaving behind the scent of lilies that lingers in the air, leading towards the surface. This time Varg lets out the laughter bubbling in his throat, unrestrained, long and echoing until he’s wheezing and coughing, hacking a half-bloomed yellow flower at his feet.

Fritz.

Again.

* * *

 

_ IV. Striped Carnations – Wish I could be with you _

Part of him hates her.

The past three days staying by her side since her collapse at Mythros’ hand, has been, in one word: hell. His compulsions had demanded he stay near the princess’s side. Fritz’s utter restlessness had bled off him in waves and forced him to sit beside her and watch. And his own rising feelings had all but shackled him to the chair he occupied in the time that passed. It was cold--cold and quiet. He hates how he can’t properly hate her in this state. There is peace in her sleep, he observes, a face she never shows to anyone. But the golden eyes are hidden behind heavy lashes and he hates how much he misses them. He hates how inadequate she makes him feel.

Two days pass in the same interval and he starts to hate the smell of flowers. The princess is still asleep, lashes heavy with no signs of waking. A small basket was placed on her table beside her bed, filled with a cascade of white carnations, half-bloomed and fully bloomed, dotted with red toppling over each other absent their stems. How dull, he thinks as he coughs out the last of them and adds it to the pile. White carnations do not suit the princess. He entertains a fleeting thought, a short stroll to the garden to pick out white lilies instead, but a particularly deep inhale from the still asleep princess derails the thought. He sits up stiffly, watching for the flutter of lashes and waits.

She is frowning in her sleep, forehead creased with irritation. It is familiar, similar to how she is when awake and ready to fight him; he could almost picture the glare that matches them. Then her expression goes slack and reverts back to a mild state of peace. Varg huffs an amused laugh, parts disappointed and weary as he sags against the back of his chair.

Sometimes he really wants to hate her.

His eyes drift to the white carnations on the table. The princess would probably hate it if he tried to impersonate her beloved knight. Fritz would have presented a bouquet of white lilies for her; going high and low like the lovestruck idiot he is to please her and wagging his tail while waiting for a reward. For his part, Varg knows there is little use to pleasing Little Red when all she sees is the wolf. Still, he doesn’t quite understand why he carries the basket to the toilet sink and takes out the flowers one by one, opening the tap to let the water wash away the unsightly red. There’s no merit to the action, no appreciation to behold when she wakes to flowers not her favorite. There’s no sense to it and he really wants to hate her, but when he places the flowers on the vase and tries to reach for  _hate,_  the white carnations throws back  _love_ , and it crystallizes itself as a proof he will deny until he is sick of looking at them.

On the seventh day, he is heaving on a toilet bowl and she wakes.

“Varg…?”

There is horror in her eyes, tangible fear carved on her features as she stares at the handful of flowers in his hand, at the flowers spread on white tiles. Varg closes a fist over the petals, drawing liquid gold gaze to him and he grins, sharp and mocking, answering the question she is too petrified to ask.

“Shows how well you know Fritz do you? He and I share the same body. This. All of _this_ is because of--”

He doubles over once more, hand clapping his mouth as he forces out the last flower still stuck in his throat. There is a warm hand resting on his back, a soft voice calling his name and Varg can almost pretend it is for him, not Fritz, not for what he is not.

Varg cannot lie to her. Cannot stand to lie to her. She is right in that manner. He and Fritz are really one and the same.

_(And yet she will still refuse him, still scorn him, still not look at him. Bearing the same face, the same voice, the same love as the man she is longing for--there is only one thing that sets the two of them apart. He can only hurt her, can never comfort her, can never stand by her side--)_

“You…” Her voice trails off. There’s a quiet edge to it, mitigated by a soft sound escaping her lips, sounding unmistakably close to a sob. He barely had the time to orient himself, to gather his thoughts when her arms loop around his neck, her forehead coming to rest on his shoulder. There’s a whimper muffled by his shoulder, he distantly realizes, as he works to circulate more air in his lungs.

“Why are you crying?” he rasps, turning his head to the tuff of pink hair filling his vision, bewildered by the warm tears he feels soaking his shoulder. He shifts in his crouched position on the floor and moves a hesitant arm to rest on her waist. He lowers his voice, softening in the way Fritz would have done and speaks. “Lucette,” he says, her name foreign and sweet like a forbidden fruit on his tongue. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

She says nothing, letting a soft shuddering breath brush against his neck and then nothing. Varg frowns, letting his arms rest more securely on her waist to pull her closer. She does not protest. Once certain that she will not hit him, he keeps his hold on her and braces his arm around the other’s body, letting the other cry helplessly against him. He didn’t know what to do, didn’t know what to say, so he doesn’t say anything.

One week had been enough to drive him almost _mad_ with the silence and flowers growing inside him. _She is awake,_ the thought is persistent, dripping with sincerity and burning relief. Even with the hiccupping sobs in her throat muffled against his shoulder, the sound of it is probably the most beautiful thing he had ever heard. He thinks of her still form and imagines her eyes never opening again; he finds that he can’t reach for the hate he was trying to nurture all week. He exhales, tightening his hold on her. _She is awake._

Varg didn’t know how long they stayed like that. His shoulder is soaked, the fabric wet and clinging to his skin but there seemed to be no stopping point for her tears. At one point, one of his hands had slipped towards her hair, fingers tangling with her unbound hair and stroking it in an attempt to distract himself. The bright light of the red dawn passes through her window and into the room. The promised word falls from her lips and Varg understands that it is probably not him she is looking for, not him who will stop those tears.

The last flower, a small striped carnation, on the floor had never felt so meaningful and spiteful.

* * *

 

_ V. Blue Roses - I can’t have you _

Misery cloaks the entirety of Angielle like a never ending mist. Varg almost did not recognize it the first time he went out. The streets are deserted, devoid of any cheer. People are huddled behind closed doors, their doors barricaded shut as if it could keep them away from the danger that lurks when they so as much step outside. The brave few who still open their shops live on the muted mechanics of their own routine, quiet as they entertain the few costumers that dared to set out of their homes. There is no life, no sun; everywhere is a boundless shadow of unhappiness and hopelessness.

Mythros is predictably happy, cackling and crowing to anyone who will hear that his queen is back. Alcaster is also predictably exiled, along with the other knights who tried to kill the queen they had thought to be an imposter Mythros had hired. Varg, on the other hand, has no care for it. Let Mythros parade his queen. Let Alcaster lie on his own grave he had dug himself.

His attention is sorely, and only, manipulated by the princess.

Like the first time Lucette had thoughtlessly made her way out of the palace and had seen the change within the town, there is a hard set to her shoulders, tension of true unhappiness laid out for anyone who could recognize it, and the tremble of barely-withheld emotion catching at her lips. Today is one of those days when Hildyr drags her daughter with her for a hands-on teaching on how to conduct her ‘patrols’. It is also one of those days when Hildyr demonstrates exactly how she _thinks_ , her subjects must be treated.

The man blasted off by the queen’s spell lies on the street, body unmoving against the cold stone. Varg can smell the metallic scent of blood, the acrid fear tainting the air. Lucette pales, watching the man’s child run to his father’s side with a broken cry. Hildyr turns her own bloodless smile to her daughter, tossing her hair behind her shoulder with a dismissive gesture, as if she had just finished swatting a fly. “And that Lucette, is how you must be. You must demonstrate your strength at every turn available to you. You do not know when your enemies are watching, so you must not show any weakness.”

Hands shaking more certainly now, Lucette ducks her head submissively, a gesture uncharacteristic of her given the length of time Varg had known her. “I understand.” she says, drawing a shaky breath as she stills her trembling hands. “May I go back to the carriage first, Mother? I am not feeling well.”

Hildyr frowns, scanning her daughter’s face with a critical eye before she sighs with disappointment. “More lessons for you back at the palace, Lucette. This display of weakness is unbecoming of you. Very well, go on. I shall join you later.”

Lucette curtsies before she fast walks to her carriage. Varg follows her, barely sitting himself inside when she shuts the door with more force than required.

Varg was certain he had already seen the many faces of Lucette. He’d seen her many times without the cloak of dignity and regality. He had also seen her fragility and mortality in the week he had spent waiting by her side. But when Lucette is clutching at her chest, heaving flowers that fall on her lap, it’s hard to look, hard to see the evidence that scatters at his feet.

“She can’t know.” she grounds firmly, hands gripping his arm tightly. Her eyes are wet, filed with naked desperation as she presses close to him, “Varg, please.” she begs.

The flowers are blue, blending with the shade of her dress. Morning glories, he identifies absently, the funnel shape of the flower giving it away. They are flowers that live and die within a day. Because of its short lifespan, it also signifies unrequited love.

“This is for Fritz, isn’t it?” he asks, voice frighteningly calm, devoid of its usual dyes of sarcasm and taunts.

“Yes.”

He can feel his heart stutter at the admission. There’s no hesitation to it, the word delivered with utmost certainty and she meets his gaze boldly, even with trembling hands still clutching his arm in fear. The queen will carve out the roots out of her own daughter’s chest if she will know about it. Varg is certain of it, can almost picture it. If the princess will have her flowers cut away, she will turn into a doll incapable of any love or emotion. He can feel the sigh rising before it even escapes him. He already knew, even without thinking, the decision he will take.

For the first time in weeks, her posture eases, her lips stretching in a gesture unfamiliar to him. He stares at it, enraptured by the sincerity poured into them. “Thank you, Varg.”

_Beautiful._

This isn’t the first time he’s thought of it. But he finds the flush of heat spreading on his face and suddenly, he feels the urge to turn away.

He is still staring at her moments later when she gathers the flowers on her lap and arranges them in a neat bundle. A part of him is still incredulous, frozen in disbelief as he gathers his thoughts and thinks of the significance of the flowers. It is utterly unbelievable, inconceivable; he peeks at the blue flowers that spilled from her lap and into the space between them and wonders, _how can one person be so dense_?

He briefly thinks of enlightening her, of untangling the misconceptions she seems to believe that causes these flowers to grow inside her and opens his mouth exactly to do that--

And he coughs.

The fit takes longer than he anticipates. By the time he breathes, there is another kind of blue flower joining the pile in between then. Her hand is resting on his back, warm in its reassurance, soaking through the fabric of his clothes and into his skin. There is a crease on her brow, a wordless concern he knew was only reserved for Fritz. Varg doesn’t know what to think of it, what it means for her to be showing this concern for him. So he settles for his usual smile, taunting and mocking, humorless as it forms on his lips, “You really are dense, aren’t you?” he states. He makes a big show of sighing, shrugging off her hands and crosses his arms over his chest. “Would you like me to keep it a secret from Fritz as well?” he half-heartedly offers.

She doesn’t answer. Curious, he turns to study the source of silence. She had turned her face to the side, angling it in a manner hidden from his view but the red tips of her ears easily give her away.

“Ah. Her Royal Dignified Highness is blushing.”

She turns to him immediately, cheeks stark red. “I am not!”

Varg laughs, the sound low and soft in his throat. Before he could think better of it, he pulls her close, ignoring the startled gasp he receives. He rests his forehead on her shoulder, chuckling mirthlessly against the crook of her neck. “You really don’t play fair, do you, Lucette?”

It’s impossible to think clearly against her proximity. The truth is bitter. So very bitter, it hurt. He had always known she was out of his reach from the very beginning. But the cemented truth brought by the disease is impossible to ignore and Varg loses himself in the tracks of time, of space, of the whole of the universe, around the small space of the carriage offers. And then there is a hesitant hand on his shoulder, warm and comforting, reeling him into reality again.

“Varg,” she says, then hesitates for a moment, “…Won’t you tell me who is it?”

The question sends another bout of laughter through him and he pulls away. “Who indeed?” He picks out one of the blue roses between them and adds it to her neat bundle. _Its cliché_ , he thinks, _but at least it’s not a red rose_.

“Maybe one day I’ll tell you.”

* * *

 

_ VI. Cyclamen – Resignation _

Barely conscious, sometimes, when he denies his hunter the sight of the outside world, he ponders about the vibrant magenta flowers he spits every time he is away from her. He thinks of the burning flare inside of him not caused by flowers and wonders about the meaning of love.

There is no competition where Fritz is involved. He knew that much.

But the thought of never seeing her face again, never getting the chance to confess this bone deep longing hurts more than the flowers.

He resents Fritz for not being able to kill his heart. His heart should have been set on duty, should have been set on his duty as nothing more than a knight. He should not have given away his heart. And then Varg would not have to suffer in the first place.

( _But even Varg knows the hypocrisy of this statement. He is not Fritz. He had been the one who had foolishly let his heart be taken hostage, held by the girl, whose hands are reaching for another, baring her heart for another. Loving is another form of dying. It is entrusting their own heartbeat to someone and expect them to help it keep beating. But when that heart does not even beat for you in the first place, there is only silence._

_Foolish, foolish wolf.)_

He resents Fritz. He resents Mythros for separating him from Fritz in a manner of a curse. But he cannot resent the love that he already gave away. He can’t bare his fangs towards the one who receives it but does not hold it. So he endures, lending his entirety to the princess who uses him as a shield to hide from her mother. He lends her a pillar when he holds her thin shoulders, holding her against him as she shakes against the intensity of the flowers that forces its way out of her lungs. It is a small consolation, a small reassurance that she trusts him enough to guard her secret, to allow him to hold her in her moment of vulnerability every time he escorts her back from lessons that suck away all and any humanity that still resides in her.

But still, another name falls from her lips. A name that was also his but at the same time _not_ - _his_.

“Let me tell you something that might lift your spirits, Lucette.”He whispers to her, when the silence descends upon them again and Lucette is still working air in her lungs. “He’s not gone. He doesn’t think he can afford to lose. He’s not giving up without a fight.”

It is almost painful to see how her eyes light up, the news bringing hope and rekindling the fire he loved in the first place. He smiles, devoid of any joy and draws away.

“I just thought you would have wanted to know.”

* * *

 

_ VII. Pink Camellia - Longing for you _

On his worse days, he sits still on the stone cold floor of the bathroom, gasping for air and choking on it at the same time. His thoughts are always cruelly manipulated by his own desire and the pain drives him to wish for what he normally will not.

_Feel something for me._

_Need me like I need you._

**_~~Love me.~~ _ **

But when he comes to, bringing in the sharp truth of reality, he banishes the thoughts. He slumps against the wall, exhaustion seeping into his bones and drags a hand to his face, closing his eyes. His throat hurt, raw and hurting against the flowers and stems that dragged themselves out of his lungs. He can still taste the mixture of metal and tang of bitter and sweet flowers at the same time, lingering in his mouth _._ He tries to inhale deep and chokes, coughing slightly with effort to expel the air. It is a small realization, one he had avoided for weeks and slaps him now with the full force of it, that he doesn’t have enough time left.

The thought should have been liberating. The freedom from his hell should have been sweet.

But he thinks of the girl he will leave, the girl who will be left to her mother’s whims and he bites his lip, clenching a fist.

Mythros eventually finds him later; crouched in the same position for who knows how long. “I should’ve known.” the witch says, clicking his tongue as he looks around, “Even though the appearance is changed, a dog will always love its mistress.” His gaze wanders to the bloodied flowers and stems decorating the floor and raises a brow, understanding suddenly dawning on his features and he chuckles. “Ah, but I see. The princess still prefers her knight, not you.”

“What do you want?” he asks tonelessly, too tired to rise to his taunts. The witch tosses a familiar cane at his feet.

 “Judging by the bloom of these flowers, I suppose you should make yourself useful while you’re still breathing your last. Your Little Red has escaped. The queen has ordered for her retrieval.”

_So she left._

The news should not have felt like betrayal.

The invisible leash loops against his neck and he grunts, forcing himself against its pull. “Get moving, Varg. We don’t have all night.” The order is cold, laced with the same magic that willed him out of Fritz and into a separate existence. Against his will, his bone tired limbs move and he is out of the door, following the faint trails of lilies once more.

It’s not hard to deduce where she was. Marchen was only where there were only a handful of people in Angielle who would dare to rescue her. Retrieval would not have been entirely hard either, simple as a walk to the park, especially with the Lucis bearer’s absence. But there is a snag, a betrayal of his own body-- the shortness of his breath that hampers his movements, the constriction of his lungs leaves him barely any space to breathe at all. The moment of weakness paves the way for the hunter who jumps at the opportunity and allows the princess to escape.

Pity, his efforts are wasted. Lucette is not willing to abandon anyone.

As if thrown back to the months before her birthday, Lucette leads a dance entirely unfamiliar to him. At the surface, there is no difference. The defiance is still there, bold in its intensity as she stands in her fragile appearance of strength. But this time, she has his cane. He is outnumbered, weaponless and cornered. And he didn’t have the damn flowers choking him to the point of submission before.

He crumbles to his knees, legs shaking as if it could not bear the weight of the body anymore. He clutches his chest, wheezing as the roots curl tighter against his lungs and _he can’t **breathe**_. Black dots spots his vision, dancing in tandem with his stilted breathing and he needed air. He needed to breathe. He _needed--_

The dagger slips from his sleeve and falls into his hand--

“No!” A hand firmly grips his arm, pulling away the cold metal resting on his neck. “Varg, don’t you dare--”

As his attention focuses on her voice, sometimes-- _sometimes--_ he wonders if it is easier to sink a blade through his chest, to the infernal roots that suffocate him. Cut them away, forget her, _unlove_ her.

But she is firmly pulling his hand, voice cracking with desperation that has become so familiar over the months. He can’t see her, he realizes with a start. He can hear her, can see the blurry shape of her, but he can’t _see_.

He flounders, as if drowning in desperation, the thought _not-seeing_ unacceptable and his mind responds, conjuring her image to overlap with reality. He sees her eyes, her fragile strength, her unfailing hope, her warm kindness--

The knife drops to the floor.

_Hah. I really do love you, Lucette._

* * *

 

_ VIII. Aster - Devotion _

There is nothing in the darkness that can offer him refuge for his thoughts.

His last stunt has left him weak, defenses broken and fangs detracted. It was easier to give way, to give control to Fritz and Varg for once, finds that he doesn’t care. He didn’t want to see her. He didn’t want anything more to do with her. At least, while he still thinks Fritz is weak, he knows he will protect her as fiercely as he would have.

But his thoughts veer towards a single point, as immediate as instinct, as constant and helpless like the orbit around the blaze of the sun. All he can think about is her, can worry about is her. And despite swearing off it, he finds himself watching anyway, resistance pointless like the helpless pull of gravitation. He sees through Fritz’s eyes as he rescues the princess, watches as she doubles over and shakes against the flowers flowing out of her, watches as she offers the red tulips with a bloodstained smile. He pretends for a moment, watching Fritz accept the red tulips, and thinks of his own hand accepting the same flower. There is undiluted want, a desire making him attune his own feelings to Fritz’s elated happiness and bask in the other’s utter euphoria of reciprocated love. He can feel the roots unwinding in the knight’s chest, the sweet air filling the other’s lungs. But there is a small part that remains, unnoticed by the knight, and the illusion shatters as Varg recognizes it for what it is.

And then the spell hits him.

_“Come along, Varg.”_

The effect is instantaneous. He can feel shackles binding him unwind, snaking up to pull Fritz instead and Varg appears in front of Lucette, the knight shackled once more in his place. He scans her immediately for injuries, noting that she is unharmed before he turns to survey the situation. He sees the queen standing a few feet away from the palace gates, glowing under the cloak of the soft amber light coming from the streetlights, dangerous in her effortless grace. And then there’s Lucette and the purple decked witch shielding her with her body, both looking at him uncertainly. He breathes low, the new liberating taste of air welcome in his lungs, and his body is already moving, standing between them and the queen.

“I do not intend to obey someone who would hurt the princess.”

Hildyr narrows her eyes at him, clicking her tongue in annoyance. “I do not know how you inspire such loyalty, Lucette. But it is very inconvenient.” She flicks her wrist, a small magic circle appearing on her hand briefly before a responding light flares out from behind her. Mythros falls from the portal, landing on his feet with lithe grace before he moves to stand beside her, offering a bow. “My Queen.”

“I order you to restrain your _pet_ , Mythros.”

“As you wish, Your Majesty.” And the advisor turns to him, a mixture of cold disapproval fitting itself in the curve of his smile and an eagerness to please glinting in his eyes. The invincible leash loops around his neck again, and Varg falls forward to his knees. “I always make sure to have control over my creations.” The witch brags above him.

Varg hisses, flexing against the magic, willing his body to move on its own. The bell tolls are ringing, he dimly recognizes, as the volley of magic spells erupts around him. He struggles to his feet, just in time to watch the princess get swallowed by light produced by the fairy’s magic. And then she was gone.

There is no feeling of betrayal this time, its absence strangely lacking weight. In its place is hope, and a short prayer on his lips.

_“Tutum manere, princess.” Be safe._

* * *

 

_ IX. Sweet pea - departure _

His feet carry him forward in long, ground-covering strides, his whole body tipping forward to bear him onward as his hold on the cane tightens and slackens in interval. It is easy to expect where she would be, the ruckus being caused at the entrance of the palace an obvious diversion to what could happen in the inside. He smells the trail of lilies, the scent tipping him of her presence before he even sees her standing close to the king, pleading for the old man to wake.

“You shouldn’t have come here.” He says. She whirls around, tensing immediately at the sound of his voice and places herself before the king.

“Varg.” she says evenly. He moves towards her, steps definite with purpose and pauses, grimacing as Fritz tugs against his consciousness. He falls on one knee, clutching at his chest as he hisses in pain. _Stop,_ he thinks. Then out loud, he whispers, “I… just need a little more time.” He turns over to the side and coughs up a blue butterfly shaped flower. _Sweet peas,_ he recognizes _._ Thankfully, there is no blood on the petals.

“I don’t understand.” Her voice floats over him. She is looking at the flower in his hand, stunned. “Why do you still have the Hanahaki?”

“Isn’t it obvious, Lucette?” Varg mocks. He stands, holding the flower loosely within his fingers and grins sharply. “Or do I have to present a thousand flowers to you before you understand?”

Fritz is already free, the flowers of death that bloomed in his lungs no more. It is only Varg’s existence that makes it so that it does not fade completely. It’s a strange reversal of their roles from the beginning. Varg was Fritz salvation, now Fritz is Varg’s freedom. He knows Lucette will never love him--will never choose him as long as Fritz exists. And for as long as the knowledge of this weighs him down, so will the flowers bloom inside him. Sharing one body with the knight, he will kill the both of them.

So he yields.

“It’s my job to destroy you.” He starts. The words keep coming, spilling up from him like they’ve been granted force by his own too-long silence. “But this big bad wolf can’t do that. You can’t destroy a person you’ve fallen in love with.” He reaches out, taking one of her still frozen hands and places the flower on her palm. There’s a relief to it, to the simplicity of the honesty even as his heart aches a familiar hurt for those things he can’t have, the peace and comfort and beauty that are as far beyond his reach.  “I just wanted to tell you how I felt. God knows Fritz is incapable.” Forcing her fingers to curl around the flower, he takes a moment to look at her, to memorize the shape of her eyes, the lines of her nose, the color of her lips. She seems to be doing the same, confused gaze melting into something softer at whatever she is seeing on his face. He forces himself to look away, exhaling as he brings her hand to his lips, a poor attempt to hide the pathetic smile he is certain he is wearing. “This is goodbye, Lucette.”

She twists her hand, fingers curling over the flower and into his palm. “You told me once that you cannot come from nothing. You are part of Fritz as much as he is part of you.”

And then the princess looks at him, _him,_ as if seeing him for the first time and her features harden, lips twisting in determination. Before he could determine what it is about, she pulls his hand holding the flower, lowering it to their chests. Her other hand reaches up to the back of his neck and she stands on her tiptoes, pressing her lips to his.

They stay there for a long moment, lingering in the careful press of lips to lips, and when Lucette draws away--red, blue, purple, white and pink petals rain from his mouth, his curse released by her soft, sincere kiss. More and more petals poured forth until he was standing in the middle of a makeshift rainbow, a confirmation of a returned love tingling on his lips. Lucette is standing before him, unmistakable tenderness touching the edges of her smile.

“This is not goodbye.”

Varg breathes, this time feeling the roots fully disappear from his lungs. Then he laughs.

* * *

 

_ X. Daffodil - New Beginnings _

“Make sure you don’t sit around like a puppy begging for attention this time.”

“I will.”

“Protect her with your life.”

“Always.”

“Make sure she’s happy.”

“Of course.

Varg smiles, sad and resigned, “Take care of her.”

Fritz watches him, an indecipherable look settling on his features, before he huffs an amused smile. “Now who’s acting like a sad puppy?” He walks up to him and holds out a hand, “ ** _We_** are going to take care of her this time.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tutum manere (Latin) - Be careful
> 
> Next up--Her Highness Lucette :D


End file.
